


thought gasoline was on my clothes

by Resamille



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A character study of sorts, Galra Keith (Voltron), Gen, Space Uncle Gives Advice, post-S3, pre-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 01:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: Ever since Keith awoke the blade, there's been something buzzing underneath his skin.(In which what is truly most important depends on you, and Keith learns a lesson in the value of friendship.)





	thought gasoline was on my clothes

Stars are constant. Their patterns change, dependent upon what sector of vast space the castle currently resides, but the stars themselves—their light, their fire, their symbolism—are constant. They are the only things, Keith thinks, that have remained so in his life.

The foster homes were fleeting. Shiro was amazing, and then he was gone. The Garrison lasted and then it didn't. Earth lasted. And then it didn't. Red—but even she left him, as if taking over the black lion was an improvement.

He was so sure of himself, of his humanity, of his place in the world.

And now: afraid, alien, a _leader_.

He—he didn't ask for this. He never wanted to take Shiro's place. He's not cut out for it. He's too rash, too angry. He knows there must be other faults, too, even if he can't manage to look deep enough inside himself to find them.

The team needs him, and Shiro needs him to lead since the black lion won't accept anything else now. The universe needs him. And somehow Keith can't resolve the lonely boy that sharpened a foreign knife hidden under his pillow with the soldier who now wields that same blade with a fierceness he'd once been so afraid of. But no—no, he's _still_ afraid of it.

The Marmoran scimitar is an increasingly familiar weight in his hands. It's different from his bayard, he's noticed. Things made with the lions' sentience all have a sort of wisdom about them. It's not cold, per se, but it's regal, righteous and... Holy. That's a good definition. Keith settles with that. The lions are holy, set apart, otherworldly.

Fighting with his bayard is like using some famed weapon. The swords from stories of stones and kings, of dragon-slaying and demons. It's touching a live wire.

But fighting with the Marmoran blade is like coming _home_.

It's ancient and inherent, a warmth in the hilt under Keith's fingertips. It's a beating heart. Or maybe Keith can feel his heartbeat through the weapon. The bayard was a gift, an heirloom, but this is a part of him. And despite the fact it has brought about terrifying consequences, Keith can't seem to let it go.

He hasn't told the team yet.

Allura took it hard enough when he found out he was Galra. He can't imagine what they'd think if he started looking like one of them, too.

So when they go on missions, Keith leaves the knife where he always does: under his pillow, a grim reminder of that which he cannot avoid.

The first time the gladiator knocked Keith down and he felt the sharp prick of his canines in his lip, he thought nothing of it. Training had its own set of battle scars in the form of bruises and nonlethal cuts. Keith never cared much about the superficial wounds. But when those same pointed teeth sliced easy through the inside of his lip again at dinner while he'd sat with the Marmoran blade strapped against his back, Keith realized something had changed.

It was no reason to panic, he had told himself. Nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Even when he had spent every waking moment searching for Shiro, Keith had never had trouble falling asleep. His instincts were survival, including forcing himself to get enough rest _._ But that night, he'd stared into the dim blue hue cast across his ceiling, and tried futilely to think of nothing.

About a week later, he figured it out: eyes dim and exhausted, Keith returned the knife back to its place under his pillow. For a week, he'd suffered by leaving it across the room. Only then did he sleep peacefully again.

He's learned to balance it, to plan when and where he holds the Galran blade close to him. So that the others won't see when his body betrays him to its heritage. The training room belongs to him and him alone right now, with the others likely asleep. Or, in Pidge's case, holing up in some corner to tap away on their laptop.

His body swivels on autopilot out of the way of the gladiator's staff. The parry of his weapon is instant and instinctual. His labored breaths are a sign of effort, not weakness.

Footsteps drum a staccato beat against the floor as both Keith and the gladiator dance around each other. There's a ferocity in Keith's blood, thrumming in his veins, branding strength into his bones, and the scimitar in his hand answers: observing, learning, leading. Keith lets it take him.

It's the rush of air in his ears, tapered to a point and held flat against his head. It's the scent of sweat and adrenaline, obvious and potent, while that which is in the background—the sage and herb of the Castle, the lingering floral of Allura's perfume, the familiarity of Shiro clinging to Keith's clothes—fades away. It's the memory of thrill and panic when the sword first awakened in Keith's hold, and that same ancient power at his fingertips as he sweeps outward with his arm, forcing the gladiator back.

But the gladiator is learning him. After all, Keith used this same move in the previous level. He expected to have a moment to collect himself, but instead the gladiator jumps right back towards him and thrusts out the staff, hitting Keith firmly in the chest.

Keith goes sprawling, but not all the way down. He barely catches himself before both knees can thud hard on the unforgiving floor. He doesn't even have the chance to push his bangs away from his eyes before the gladiator's weapon is on him again, swinging down in an arc meant to wind Keith. When he first got here, this attack would be impossible to avoid. Even a week ago, Keith probably wouldn't be able to find a way out. But not today.

Today, he is determined.

He's angry—not because of anything that happened, but at the unfairness of the world and his own inability to bear it. Hurt and spite and trepidation in the pit of Keith's heart makes his muscles burn, and the Marmoran blade slices upwards with newfound speed. The clash of metal rings in Keith's sensitive ears, and his arm shudders from the impact, shockwaves dulling into an ache at his shoulder.

But it works; the gladiator falters, stumbling back to try a new attack, even though it's too late. Keith darts forward, knocking the end of the staff away with his weapon, and then slices cleanly across the gladiator's chest.

The image flickers, sparks flying off the droid, and then it solidifies. Keith wastes no time hacking his sword down against the joint of the gladiator's dominant arm. With a great screeching, it dislocates, and the staff clatters to the ground, limb still holding firm. Paired with the same wide arc, except now at a much closer range, the first contact of the blade to the gladiator's neck makes the entire thing explode into energy.

Keith stands, panting hard and grimacing at his own brutality.

“Level six training complete,” the automated voice of the training room reports.

Keith closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and _breathes_.

There was a time when he told himself training was for a reason. That he was preparing for the worst. That he was going to be the best fighter. That it was for emergencies. Because he's always only looked out for himself, and he doesn't know how not to. But now, with each passing day bringing him closer to being truly Galra, he has to face the fact that his anger, his desire to fight, might stem from something more than ambition.

That he is inherently corrupted. Carefully crafted to be cruel and punishing and powerful.

“You know, Allura had trouble on this level when she was young.”

Keith's ears, now fully extended and covered in the same incongruous silk-soft of his hair, flatten against his head. The hiss pulled from his throat is mostly unintentional as he whirls to face Coran.

The once-proud Altean adviser is leaning against the wall next to the doors. His hands are folded together in a sort of formal gesture that comes from years of training as a servant. Keith doesn't know Coran's history, doesn't know in its entirety the connections he has to Altea and Alfor and Allura, but he can guess. There are things that give it away: the proud set to his shoulders, the wise gleam in his eye, the mischief in the hint of a smile.

Important, valued, a subordinate but also a friend—that's what these small things say.

But now, Keith can't read him.

Coran's gaze is hidden behind a furrowed brow. He's watching an indeterminate point upon the ground, and Keith is unsure if he should interrupt or wait for Coran's next move.

Coran could tell the others. And really, would that be so terrible? Keith is used to being looked at with resentment, with contempt. Why should it be any different as a paladin? He's no more worthy of respect as member of Voltron as he is a student at the Garrison. At the Garrison, he was always too good.

Now, not good enough.

Never enough.

He's not _Shiro_.

He accepts that—this inevitability of facing the others when obviously he's descending into whatever mentality all Galra seem to share. Even the Blade of Marmora carry with them a sort of ruthlessness that Keith wishes he didn't relate to. But part of him wants to plead with Coran.

Because if the others don't know, then at least he'll still feel a little bit like a part of a team. A little bit human. They've always been a mess, and Keith's always been a loner, but he would have to be physically blind not to notice the way Voltron is slowly becoming less and less a scraggly group of kids and more and more a force to be reckoned with: a family.

Keith opens his mouth, tongue sandpaper on his lips. He intends to speak, maybe beg for Coran's favor, but Coran looks up at him, then, and Keith's jaw snaps closed with a audible click when he teeth clack together. One of his canines pokes dangerously close to his lip, where he's cut it countless times before.

Coran regards him for a moment. This is a side of him—contemplative, quiet, observant—that Keith has far less experience with, and he swallows hard.

“Working yourself too hard won't change anything about your appearance,” Coran says finally. “It's not dependent on stress or environmental stimulants. Well, not really.”

“I'm aware,” Keith replies softly, feeling as if speaking too loud will set of the bomb of tension in the air. “It's the sword.”

“It's not _always_ the sword,” says Coran, pushing off the wall. “Sometimes it's other things. Trinkets. Blessings. _Markings_. We are all connected to our pasts in some way. For Alteans, it is the light we bear imbedded in our skin. To remind us what is true. When we shift, we leave some part of our past behind, only to be regained when we embrace the reality of ourselves.”

“I see,” Keith replies carefully, as Coran makes his way closer.

“For you,” Coran finishes, “It is the sword.”

“Do you know... anything?” Keith asks. He can hear his heartbeat rushing in his ears. He feels the Blade respond, hilt warm under his fingertips, edge itching for another fight. One that Keith will not let it start.

“Mastery comes with time,” Coran replies. “You will be able to control it with practice and patience.”

“I don't have either of those.”

“No,” says Coran. “You don't.”

“You're going to tell the others then?” Keith feels himself deflate, body shrinking away from any sort of aggressive stance. His shoulders slump, and he curls in on himself, ears dropping down unconsciously.

“If you want me to. It's not my choice to make.”

“Why isn't it?” Keith asks, peering up through his sweat-damp bangs at Coran. “This is your castle. You already know I'm Galra, but this is... different. For quiznak's sake, Hunk was right. He _should_ have been watching to see if my skin was going to turn purple. At this point, I don't blame him. I wouldn't blame you.”

“Keith,” says Coran, drawing him from his distress. He's suddenly closer than Keith thought, looking down at him with some mixture of fondness and sorrow. Coran tilts his head up with a finger to his chin. “You owe Altea nothing. I am sorry for the Princess—she grew up in a world where the Galra only ever represented pain and destruction—but to me, they are more. They are friendship and loyalty and leadership, and I believe that you have those traits before any others.”

Keith blinks at him, embarrassingly rapidly because he's trying to hold back sudden tears. “Thank you,” he says, gnawing on his lip and immediately piercing through skin. “But I'm not any of those.”

“You're just lost. You will find them,” Coran tells him, tone gentle.

“I—” Keith starts, and then takes in a shuddering breath. He turns away from Coran because he doesn't want to see the pity in his gaze, but he can't hide from the kindness in his voice. He can only run. But Keith already tried running—twice now, once at the Garrison, and once after he first suspected he was Galra—and it never worked.

And maybe in his past, Keith would have kept at it, because running was always easier than confronting emotions. Flee, or rush into battle. Either way, it was an easy escape so he didn't have to think. But he's supposed to be a leader now. He has to grow up sometime. He has to face his own turmoil at some point.

“How?” Keith whispers instead. He feels small. Not weak, necessarily, but insignificant. He's not Shiro. He's not a leader. How can he be expected to make a difference?

Coran shakes his head. “You should talk to the Blade. But, if you ask me—well, I guess you did, just now—you're looking in the wrong place. That sword isn't going to get you anywhere.”

Keith looks down at the blade and lets out a slow breath. “Okay,” he says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Coran doesn't know. He can't understand the longing ingrained into Keith's bones for the chase. He can't understand the way the knife makes him simultaneously calm and terrified. It's always been a comfort, but now it brings with it energy, wanting.

If the others knew about the physical transformation, it would be well within their rights to be scared. Because it's not just his appearance that's changed. It feels like his heart has, too.

Keith doesn't realize he's shaking until the room sways and Coran reaches out to steady him with a hand to his shoulder. Keith swallows down the whimper that tries to fight its way through his throat. Instead, he looks up to meet Coran's gaze, pleading, questioning, helpless.

“You should rest,” Coran says kindly.

“Can't,” Keith chokes out. “Lotor. Voltron. Training.”

“Something less taxing on your body, then,” Coran suggests. “If we were anywhere near Revlin, ah, the hotsprings there are simply divine, but alas... Have you spoken to your lion recently?”

Keith tries to steady himself by taking measured breaths. “Black isn't... Talkative.”

Coran's mustache twitches with a hidden smile. “I said _your_ lion, Keith.”

“Red's not mine,” Keith grits out, a hint of bitterness managing its way into his tone.

“Not your partner, no.” Coran taps Keith's chest, over his too-quick heartbeat, still working overtime from training. “But she's still your friend. Nothing will change your relationship with her. Go, Keith. She'll let you in, I'm sure.”

Keith slowly nods, wanting to argue just for the sake of wallowing in pity, but he needs to move on. He needs to get over... whatever this is. He needs to figure it out. And as much as he wants answers _now_ , training isn't giving him any information. He needs to stop beating the metaphorical dead horse.

So Coran's advice can only help.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't want to face Red, because it's painful. There's still a tug in his heart that says they belong together, and part of it gives Keith hope that someday Shiro will fly Black again. But mostly it's just a constant reminder of that which is no longer his.

“Go,” instructs Coran. “Bond with your lion. Call the Blade.”

Keith sighs, and does what he good at, or... At least, he thought he was good at it, but honestly he's not sure of anything at this point. Either way, he follows orders.

Willing the Marmoran blade back into a knife, Keith tucks it into his belt and brushes past Coran, steps uncertainly into the empty castle hallways.

Coran has already found him out, but he's willing to write that off as an outlier. He still feels a spike of panic in his chest at the thought, but there's nothing he can do now. The tap of his shoes echoing off the walls isn't new to him. After all, he's walked a similar route back to his room, hiding until the morning when his appearance eventually fades back to normal.

He doesn't expect the voice to greet him as soon as Red's hangar opens.

“What are you doing h—what the hell.”

Keith groans, wondering if he runs right back out the door if Lance will pretend this never happened.

“So _that's_ why you've been acting weird.”

And that would be a hard _no_ on convincing Lance that this was a dream. Keith feels his body lock up, ears flattening self-consciously towards his head. He can't hide the Galra features now, but he's willing to do anything to put off this interaction. He doesn't want to see Lance's disgust, his betrayal, written across his face like ink.

Keith turns on his heel, ready to run.

“Uh-uh,” Lance says loudly. “No escaping, get back here.”

Keith freezes but doesn't turn around. “You don't want me here,” he tells Lance, because that's the truth.

Lance hums, calm. Too calm? Keith isn't sure. “I want to know _why_ you're here.”

Keith answers honestly. What else would he do? Lie? As if he'd ever manage to get away with it. That's why he hides. Because just ignoring the problem of his appearance around his teammates already feels too much like dishonesty. “To see Red.”

“What, after my lion, now? Think I'm not taking good enough care of her?”

Keith shakes his head. “No, I just... Wanted some alone time.”

“Well, I was busy having my alone time with Red. You know, the two of us. Alone. Together.” There's a joke in Lance's voice that Keith doesn't acknowledge. “What's with the ears? Those are new.”

“Yup,” Keith answers curtly, feeling his body tense up. He doesn't know how to deal with this. He doesn't—he doesn't understand. He just wants this to stop, this call towards the Galra, this kinship. He—he doesn't—he can't—

“Hey,” Lance says softly, because he's suddenly in Keith's space.

Keith jumps away, hand automatically reaching for the knife. His fingers brush the hilt as he finally turns to look at Lance, feeling panic rise in his chest.

“Hey, hey, Keith, calm down,” Lance is saying, tone gentle. “You're freaking out on me, dude. What's up with you?”

Keith pulls in a large gulp of air, trying to pace the quick pants of breath he'd previously been managing.

Lance's brow furrows. “You're scared. You're—why?”

“I d-don't—I don't know.” The words tumble from Keith's lips, weak and lifeless. They fall to the floor and pool at his feet. He feels tears prick at the corners of his eyelids because this is all too much. Coran was one thing, but to have Lance know how wrong he is? To have Lance be able to hold that over him? They were friends, almost, but now what?

“Deep breath,” Lance reminds him, palms out, placating.

Keith nods and tries to do as he's told. When did he start taking orders from Lance?

Probably when Keith screwed up and Lance managed to help him fit everything back together. Because somewhere along the line, Lance decided he cares.

So really, Keith is being exceedingly irrational about this. Lance would probably be one of the first people on the team to accept him in his entirety, but... That fear still lingers in his muscles, tense and poised to flee.

“We don't have to talk if you don't want to,” Lance says, careful. “Just, don't run, okay? Running isn't going to get us anywhere. Trust me, I've tried. I was six. My mom was _pissed_. Older sis had, like, at least one heart attack.”

Keith barks out a broken, surprised laugh. He sobers quickly, though. “I'm tired of running,” he breathes out.

“That's a good start,” Lance says. “Do you want time with Red? I can leave you alone.”

Keith looks towards the lion, regally poised with her nose in the air. She's beautiful and elegant and... not his. Turning back to Lance, Keith feels a bit of the tension ease out of him. “No. Stay. You're... not freaking out?”

“I mean I wasn't _prepared_ to have you walk in here all purple and furry while I was having bro-time with Red, but it's not like I'm panicking.”

Keith snorts. “The purple and furry is new, yeah. Well... Less new than you'd think.”

“It's not permanent?”

Keith shakes his head. Then he opens his mouth to add something, and for a moment, no sound comes out, but then everything spills out of him at once. He finds himself talking about the knife, now tucked against his hip, about his worries about the Blade, about being Galra, about how Allura might react... About how he can feel the simmer of Galra instinct buzz under his skin, a constant tingle of electrified nerves.

For once, Lance listens. He stands, and nods at appropriate times, gesturing for Keith to continue when he stumbles over words. He's patient, something Keith has never managed to associate with Lance until now, and he realizes that maybe it's taken him this long to realize that this is what it means to be Lance's _friend_.

When he stops talking, the silence stretches for a beat, and then Lance lets out a low, vaguely impressed whistle. “No wonder you're so grumpy all the time.”

Keith scoffs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

The corner of Lance's mouth quirks up in a tiny grin. “Nothin' at all.” Keith watches his gaze flick up to the ears. “They're pointy,” he says.

Keith responds by looking at him like he's crazy.

“I think Allura would appreciate them,” Lance finishes. “Y'know, since she thinks mine are ugly.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Your ears are fine. You're just not Altean.”

Lance shrugs. “So what now?”

“What do you mean, 'what now'?”

“I mean... You obviously have some stuff you're working through and... I'm pretty surprised you even told me any of it, and maybe a little flattered, too, if I'm being honest, but... I'm not Galra, Keith. I can't actually help you.”

Keith sighs, and deflates. “No,” he agrees. “You can't.”

Lance watches him, and the crease in his brow deepens with worry. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, a habit of concern, and then breathes out slowly through his nose. “Maybe not with any of the Galra stuff, but you need to relax, yeah? Hunk and Pidge managed to make an adapter for Pidge's laptop for the game we got at the space mall. We should go try it out.”

“Lance,” Keith sighs out. “We have better things to do than...” He waves his hand in a vague gesture.

“Sure,” Lance says, and turns to hook his arm over Keith's shoulder. “Saving the universe, blah blah. Don't get me wrong, that's important, but Keith, when was the last time you got to be a kid?”

The thought hits closer to Keith's heart than he would have expected it to. Because, as Lance leads him out of the hangar, he tries to remember the last time he did anything relatively normal but can only draw blanks. At the Garrison? Except they always told him he was a prodigy, separate from his peers because of his skill. Before that? As an orphan? Hiding a knife close to his chest as he bounced from foster home to foster home? Definitely not then, either. With Voltron?

With Voltron. The food fight, so soon after this all started. Before Keith's identity began to crumble under his feet as more and more of his unknown background was revealed.

So he lets Lance take him to Green's hangar. Lance spends about fifteen minutes convincing Pidge to relent their laptop to him. And when Pidge finally agrees, Lance starts setting up the game while Pidge wanders over to Keith's side. They reach up to prod at his ears, mutter something along the lines of “cool, do you hear better now?” and then leave it at that after getting an affirmative from Keith.

Halfway through the game, Lance mentions that they probably should have done this in Red's hangar because he'd been waiting for Coran to bring him a recording of their most recent training session. Too late now. The realization that Coran must have known Lance was there when he sent Keith to Red goes right over Keith's pointy ears.

It's not a solution. The time spent together doesn't provide answers.

But it _is_ what Keith needs.

This—friendship—is constant.

Everything else is changing. Keith is changing. Voltron is changing. The universe is changing, and if they have anything to say about it, hopefully for the better. But squished between Pidge and Lance and playing some silly video game well past their bedtime? This, Keith can get used to. Because like the stars, his teammates—their light, their fire, their symbolism—are constant.

And by the time they stumble back to their bedrooms, eyes burning from staring at the bright screen in the dark, Keith doesn't feel like he's being crushed by responsibility. As he falls into bed, he realizes he's left his knife in Green's hangar, and for once that doesn't bother him. Coran was right. Not the knife, but a family.

Maybe that's what his Galra blood has been trying to tell him. The itch under his skin to rush into things hasn't been bloodlust. It's been loneliness, driving him to anger and distress.

But he's not in the desert, and he's not alone on this castle.

So maybe it's time to start acting like it.

Keith breathes deep, and reminds himself that his friends will always be there when the sun rises, wherever that is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> take this bullshit hdbgskjhdbfg
> 
> this was a piece i wrote for the application for wild fyre but never posted and i realized it was sitting in my folder. watching. waiting for the time to strike.
> 
> anyway title is from Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier.
> 
> I have no idea. what the point of this fic even is anymore. welp.


End file.
